Chapter Three
Dustin
Force Elite Hockey Lab was run by a six-foot-five bald Swede called Tom Jonasson, who seemed to think if an athlete wasn’t throwing up by the end of a session then he wasn’t doing his job right.
Which was why Dustin came here: it reminded him of Dad.
“You look like crap,” said Tom, as Dustin came in from the parking lot, “did you sleep at all last night?”
“You look like an asshole,” Dustin said back, “did you shit at all this morning?”
Tom grunted, and Dustin went to the locker room to put on his shorts. He hadn’t slept enough: he and Katie fell asleep around two, and he woke up at six when she left for work. He was welcome to stay and sleep in, she said, but Dustin had never been able to do that.
On the way back out to Tom, his phone dinged, and he pulled it out and put it on silent as he read the text. Hannah, his social media manager.
Hey D. Elliot Rodriguez reached out on IG. He wants the name of a gym? You can give me the name and I’ll pass it along, or I can get in touch with his people for contact info.
Dustin laughed through his nose. Rodriguez DM’d him. Like he thought Dustin would actually check it. He had no idea what gym Hannah was talking about, but his interest was piqued enough that he told her to send him Rodriguez’s number.
When the number came through he texted Rodriguez – My social media gal said you reached out on IG? Cute. Like you think a legend with four million followers manages his own account – and put the phone down on a bench.
He usually reported to Tom in July, but he’d been here since April this year because of the knee.
When they’d started, all he was allowed to do was slowly ride the stationary bike, which was exasperating.
He wasn’t even going to be starting the regular season in September – he’d be going into Injured Reserve.
Everything he was doing now was just mechanics.
Getting in shape to do even one shift in an actual hockey game would take until early next year.
Which was excruciating.
But the team’s physician, Dr. Wu, had been explicit that Dustin wasn’t to move faster than what she prescribed, and under absolutely no circumstance was he to push through any pain. To Dustin, this was incomprehensible. He’d spent his life pushing through pain. That’s what you did during hockey.
He warmed up and started with Spanish squats.
They had the place to themselves, and Tom circled with his arms folded – really using all that empty space.
Usually, that was exactly what Dustin wanted, but today he was tired and hungover, and he didn’t appreciate being appraised like a racehorse that might need to be taken out back and shot.
At the end of an hour, Tom threw him a towel and he went to the bench where his phone and water bottle waited. He sat down harder than he’d meant to and blew out a long breath as he buried his face in the towel.
“You didn’t sleep,” said Tom.
Dustin toweled his neck. “Not enough.”
Tom gave this the look it deserved, then retreated to get rollers and tennis balls. The phone buzzed on the bench beside Dustin and a text popped up.
take it easy, abuelo. you only got 4 million followers because you been doin this a hundred years. anyway it’s 3.6 million
Smirking, Dustin picked up the phone.
Aw you memorized the number? So you do have a crush on me? Did you take a screenshot?
Three dots. Then: you gonna tell me the name of your gym or what
Tom came back with a wicker basket full of foam rollers and therapy balls – which looked like toys until you put the weight of your entire quadricep on one and realized it was actually a torture device.
Dustin went to the middle of the blue mat and sat down with one under his hamstring, grit his teeth and kept himself busy with the phone.
I thought you were going back to Tampa, he sent.
might stick around for the summer, Elliot replied. IDK gotta check out the facilities first
What makes you think I want you hanging around my gym?
will you just tell me the name? believe me dog I’m not looking to spend time with you. I’m just doing recon. I bet i can find somewhere better anyway
Dustin scoffed and sent, Good luck, with the address attached. He lay on his back and squeezed his eyes shut as Tom aggressively massaged the scar tissue around the mess of screws and wire holding his knee together. The phone pinged and he opened them again.
you fuck that girl last night or what
Charming. Such a way with words, this kid. He sent back a trophy emoji, hating himself as he did, and Rodriguez responded with 100 and a trophy of his own.
Congratulations, Dustin sent. Tie game.
LMK if you wanna rematch viejo, said Rodriguez.
After the workout Dustin walked to Elaine’s Cafe for a smoothie before his afternoon sessions. The sun was up and the air was clear and Portland was as beautiful as it ever was, but he had this nagging little thing poking him in the back of the head now.
Why the fuck had he sent Rodriguez that address?
Because you know your gym is the best and you wanted to prove it.
So fucking stupid. He really needed to stop trying to one-up this kid. Elliot Rodriguez in Portland? All summer? If it happened, it would be a goddamn nightmare.
Two days later, Rodriguez was at the gym.
He was the first thing Dustin saw when he walked in, and Dustin just stopped in the doorway with his sunglasses on and his duffel bag over his shoulder and said, “No.”
It was mid-afternoon on a Tuesday which, granted, wasn’t when Dustin usually came.
The place was busy, and Rodriguez was warming up on a foam roller in joggers and a navy t-shirt, talking to a coach Dustin didn’t recognize.
He glanced up as Dustin came in, and as though he hadn’t even seen him, went back to his coach.
Dustin went to the locker room and shucked off his bag, fuming.
How did he even get over here? This wasn’t within walking distance of Elliot’s hotel – that hotel wasn’t far from Dustin’s apartment.
Dustin had driven here in the same rental car he had every summer.
Rodriguez must be hemorrhaging money on Ubers.
He went back out to a mat and sat down to stretch. Elliot was on the rower across the gym doing power intervals with a tight, percussive rhythm that Dustin could see was impressive from all the way across the room. Dustin faced the other way so he wouldn’t have to watch him.
“Isn’t it a day off for you, Bennet?”
He looked up. Tom was stacking dumbbells by the mirror.
“Taking it easy,” he said. “Just needed to move.”
Tom finished stacking the dumbbells and stood watching Rodriguez a moment, probably seeing the same impressive form that Dustin did. Then he went back to his office, saying over his shoulder, “I’m timing your rests, so make sure you do them.”
“It’s a rest day! You’re not even getting paid to train me.”
“And you’re not even supposed to be here, so I guess I’m being a real sweet, real generous guy by letting you stay.”
Ten minutes later, Elliot’s coach – whose name he’d overheard as Marisol – dragged an agility ladder made of rope and wooden slats into the middle of the main floor, and laid it out. Rodriguez stood at the beginning of it, stretching his quads.
Dustin tried not to watch as he ran his first drill. But he couldn’t help it.
The kid was at the end of the ladder in what felt like four seconds – and then he immediately came back in reverse, even though he hadn’t been told to. Like a cheeky little cunt.
Marisol clicked her stopwatch. “Ten point three nine.”
“Ten?” Rodriguez looked skeptical. “Are you sure?”
Marisol, whose no-nonsense energy reminded Dustin a lot of Dr. Wu, pitched him a look. “Do it again if you think it was wrong.”
“Okay, okay, tranquila, Nena.” Rodriguez grinned as he went back to the top. “We’re warming up, you don’t need to be spicy.”
He stepped into position, shaking out his hair and flinging sweat, and Dustin made a face and turned around. He sat with his legs out, flexing and pointing his toes, and heard Elliot’s sneakers go like a jackhammer as he ran the drill again.
Marisol called, “Ten point five nine. Slower.”
“What?” Elliot sounded outraged.
Dustin smiled privately and slowly circled his ankles.
“Ten point five nine,” repeated Marisol. “Do you need it in Spanish?”
Silence. Dustin looked over his shoulder.
Rodriguez was resetting, looking furious, and Marisol was standing close to him, saying something in his ear that Dustin couldn’t hear, which was probably along the lines of, “Ten point whatever is fine for your first ladder of the day forwards and backwards.”
Rodriguez looked like he didn’t want to hear it. Dustin could’ve sworn he saw him glance in his direction.
“Did you hear me?” said Marisol. Elliot stared at the top of the ladder. “Rodriguez.”
“Yes, I’m gonna do what you said.”
She stepped back and lifted the stopwatch. “Just go one way,” she said, firmly. Then waited. “Okay?” Silence. “Okay?”
“Okay! Yes! One way!”
Dustin watched his chest rise and fall, and then his lips moved, and he went.
He was, Dustin would never have said out loud, a beautiful athlete.
Every muscle in him was wholly committed to where his foot was landing – not that Dustin could see his feet, because they were a blur.
Yeah, he was fast as hell. The fastest Dustin had ever run a ladder one-way was two point three nine.
The time was still posted on the record wall at a gym in Denver.
Rodriguez looked…faster. Which wasn’t humanly possible.
Marisol clicked the watch. There was a small pause, then, “Two point four six.”
Elliot whistled. “Yes, my little coneja, that’s more like it.”
Dustin’s stomach dipped. He turned around again and bent his knees into butterfly and closed his eyes. Two point four six was unsettlingly close to two point three nine. But there was no way Rodriguez was about to smoke his PR.
No fucking way.
He heard sneakers pounding again and felt his whole body tense as he waited for the readout.
“Two point four five.”
“Okay. Okay. Now we’re cooking.”